To thee, all time to thee, My lyre a voice shall be! Above all earthly fashion, Above mere mundane rage, Your mind made it my passion To write for noblest stage.

Whoe’er you be, send blessings to her–she Was sister of my soul immortal, free! My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, When green hoped not to gray to run its course; She was enthroned Virtue under heaven’s dome, My idol in the shrine of curtained home.